Bruce rolled the fragment herbs between his gloved fingers, smelled the spices that added a sharp tang to the air around him. The marketplace was busy this early in the morning, busier then it had been last night or the evening before. Every person rumbling past with brimmed hats and tired faces, many with wares freshly bought or ready to sell. Most of them were Asian, mumbling in a language Bruce only knew the name of.

This town was different then the others he had been to before. Or maybe it wasn't really. It was poor, remote and uncivilized in nature, with almost no technology to speak of, and he'd seen hundreds of places just like it. Its only saving grace – if you could call it that – was that upon the mountains overlooking it, like a big brother everyone was slightly nervous around, stood the templates and barracks Bruce called… almost home.

Almost. Regardless of the years he had now spent with the League of Shadows (far longer then he'd stayed anywhere else, with anyone else), the unnamed mountain felt far more like a hotel room then a house. The League did not foster bonds, and even if they did, Bruce knew his heart was always landmasses away, buried deep inside the city he had crawled from as a child.

Gotham. Even here, buried so deep in a culture he could never hope to breach, she still sang like a sailor's wife, desperate and pleading for him to come home.

He allowed only the smallest of smiles – not because the spices were all that great – but because he knew it was never really Gotham singing for him, but Jack. Poor Jack, who had suffered through the faint contact and low income and loneliness that overtook a person without work or purpose, separated from their beloved soul mate. Poor Jack who had just been likened to a grieving wife.

Upon his next correspondence, perhaps he would neglect to inform the man that he'd been officially dubbed the women of their none too stable or pleasant relationship. As much as Jack enjoyed a good joke, there was never much joking about their bond. That was just untouchable, on principle if nothing else.

"Are you American?" The sudden inquiry draws him away from eavesdropping on the not entirely natives who have been discussing arms trades behind the booth. Bruce throws a slow glance at the speaker, who grins at him from behind cheap sunglasses and a thick winter coat.

"You spreken ze English?" The man jokes, very, very white teeth giving him another grin. It is clear he doesn't speak a lick of Dutch, but has most likely picked the phase somewhere and thought it funny.

Bruce eyes him a moment longer, sizing him up. His sunglasses are cheap, but they match his (expensive) hiking boots and the (cheap) watch on his wrist. The coat is brand new and also expensive, but the pants and the sweater and shirt collar are worn and used. He's bundled like its snowing for mid-spring, and his accent suggests southern American. No tourist camera, phrase book or map, but a simple notebook and writing pen.

Journalist. And his camerawoman is running up behind him sans equipment. Journalist on his day off then.

"It is actually 'Spreekt u Engels'." Bruce purrs, added the fake friendly layer the western part of the world is so fond of. He's too interested in the criminals before him to truly take the mask to his eyes, but for this it works.

The journalists laughs. He tilts his head and brushes his fingers along Bruce's arm. Another member of the League, much more native looking, casts a quick glance as if to say, "do you want me to kill this guy?". Bruce is still keeping an ear on the smugglers. The League can't talk to Bruce silently like Jack can, but they come close. Multitasking is always an option. They'll deal with the news crew, they'll deal with the arms and they'll make sure their little resort town is safe and sound for another day of deserted highland lifestyle.

The Journalist laughs, asks where he's from, asks what his name is, asks how long he's been there. Bruce just shrugs it off and flirts back. The locals don't understand English anyway, and don't know what is happening.

Of all of Bruce Wayne's chances, he meets a gay American in the barren wastelands of fucksville.

"Who are they?" Whispers his comrade, in a language a few dialects off from the locals. The natives will notice, will know it as their "peacekeepers", but the Americans can't even tell. "Foreigners can be dangerous."

Bruce gives the news team a faux smile. "Excuse me for a moment." He purrs in equal charm to the other Shadow. "They are a news team and they are trying to bed me." The Shadow replies swiftly. "Kill them."

Bruce just nods.

O-O-O

Samuel kisses with more skill then Bruce has seen in a long time, even better then Jack. (But Jack is terrible at kissing, as is Bruce. They bite, and that is the end of it. That's how they do things Gotham style.) His camerawoman, Lucy is also his girlfriend and both of them are quite partial to other partners. Bruce knows, in his way, as he knows within a second of joining them in their hotel room just how this whole thing is going down. He also knows that they only do this abroad, where their perfect image cannot be traced.

He smoothes and preens and makes them laughed with well placed jokes, because Jack's always been the fucker, but that doesn't mean Bruce didn't learn a thing or two.

He holds them in a rare moment of peace, thinks almost purely of Gotham, of Jack. How much he misses his American accents and entitled asshole attitudes. He contemplates how to kill them, how to dispose of their bodies.

There was a hundred ways he could do it, with only his hands, as the League and others have trained him. Hundreds more if he uses the weapons concealed in his clothes, or the items scattered around the room.

He settles for old fashioned. Gets up to find some beer or water, comes back with a kitchen knife and stabs both of them before through the throat before they even have time to react. He cleans what evidence of his presence he can, even if there is no police force to trace him. It's like a habit he can't kick, OCD of the best kind, perhaps?

He hums a showtune, the kind he listened to during his childhood, with Jack in alleyways, picking fights like the sun wouldn't come up tomorrow, going through packs upon packs of candies and fruit because they needed the sugar to keep going.

He spares but a glance on his way out, redressed and ready to go. The corpses stare at him in horror, frozen forever in their last moments. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a newspaper on a suitcase. One article is circled in red, front page. Samuel's pride and joy, no doubt. But he's not interested in the side article at all – because the header says Gotham News and suddenly his heart is breaking, because Gotham, Jack, mother, father.

Sosososososo long he has been away, years without seeing Jack's face or feeling cracked pavement as he runs or the blissful drug-like feel he'd gain from picking fights. Bruce has always been convinced he doesn't really have a heart to break, but man, does it ever feel like it now. Perhaps the muscles around the missing organ are just contracting, as they have been known to do, wondering where it went?

The Gotham newspaper isn't the only one there – there are ones from a lot of east coast cities, some in the area, some not. Samuel and Lucy had not been Gothamites (thank God) but that didn't mean they had hadn't been there, in his city. In their city. Hunting stories like animals after prey.

He takes the newspaper. Because Bruce has been waiting, waiting for the time to go back. When their plan can be unveiled for all of the world to see. Perhaps it'll tell him if the time is soon.

O-O-O

Bruce had set rules in place for himself years ago. Don't kill had been one of them. His darkness was a slippery slope and he could not hope to see the bottom, but he knew killing pushed him farther and farther along. The bats had been where it started – little nudges like children's hands telling him to go down, down down downdown into the darkness. Then he'd travled and he had learned. He knew how to kill properly now, but he tried not to. Criminals, he would, if the chance arose, if it was the better option over all. Sometimes necessity rose though, like it just had. To protect people who would surely kill him if he did not do as they asked.

O-O-O

Bruce could not be bullied. That wasn't the lie. He told himself they'd kill him if he didn't kill, and perhaps that was the lie.

O-O-O

A small part of him – no, a big part – wishes to be exactly like Jack, to be consumed so completely nobody can tell the difference between them.

O-O-O

Jack has killed, so he will too.

O-O-O

Ra's knows of course. Knows before he even got back, because he's late (if only by mere minutes) and he's off, withdrawn and thinking. He hides the paper and goes to his tutor, meditating alongside his mentor.

Ra's does not ask for clarification, for while his other teachers may assume that Bruce will stay forever, climbing the ranks as surely as he climbs the mountain, Ra's knows better. Ra's always knows better. Always has.

"You'll cleanse your city like a fire." Murmurs the leader, focusing far beyond anything seen by sight.

"Of course." Bruce is quieter then him, not humble but careful. "I will make it as if it never suffered before."

Ra's spares only the smallest of nods, and they speak no more. Ra's had always been the favorite of Bruce's mentors; they get along better then most people the billionaire has met.

They don't say goodbye, because they both know this isn't forever.

O-O-O

"Alfred." Bruce speaks as if the years had never gone by, as if he's calling over the weekend between due papers. The other end of the line is silent, deadly silent and the answer is thick with grief and hope and anger. "Bruce."

"I'll be arriving at the Gotham airport in three days time at noon." Bruce flips through the plane tickets before him, on top of the duffel bag full of fake IDs, mountain clothes and dangerous weapons. The League does not have much to their name, but they still have their tools.

"Bruce where have you been…" Alfred's voice is thicker then before, almost on the verge of tears, perhaps even more so when Bruce doesn't answer.

"I'll see you then." He cuts the line and pushes down the tiniest smidge of feeling that had crawled through the cracks of his own mind. Returning to the only parent he had, was an enjoyment he could not allow himself. This was business, even if nobody else knows.

He doesn't call Jack, because they've tried that and it is too painful. So he just sends a quick text instead; Back in town on 27th, same old at midnight?

He's an hour into his slow journey to the nearest airport when the reply comes. I'll bring coffee and cake!

And Bruce allows himself a smile, because he's a prince coming back from a war campaign, ready to reap riches and be crowned anew.

O-O-O

Alfred is everything he remembered. Old and stern, but still loving, with tears in his eyes and a tremble in his hands. He knows Bruce doesn't enjoy touching, but he grasps him in a hug all the same, sobs raking his body and mumbles of how much he's missed him. Bruce returns those things in kind; pulling up the mask Alfred knows is there, though he doesn't say anything. Best to leave such things be.

Many curious glances are thrown their way, at the old, well-dressed man and his scraggily, battle worn companion. Not to mention the expensive car they get into. But Bruce has been away so long, having left a child and returned a man. Nobody recognized him, and none cared yet.

Alfred just stares at him, so sure and yet so confused, positive only that hell had been dwelt. He knew, as only Alfred would know, that Bruce had changed forever.

And perhaps a small part of him felt guilt for it; that he could share none of what had happened to him.

Or he would have, if he had felt guilt.

O-O-O

He spends more time in police stations, on the phone and being hugged then he ever has before, that's for sure. Returning from the dead is tricky, more so when the rest don't want you there. Never had Bruce seen such heated glances from the Wayne Enterprises board.

But his prints match those on file from some miss-endeavors in his youth, many people, old friends that were never truly friends conform his voice and face and in a week or so, DNA tests will prove everything as well.

Everyone around him is in tears, though Alfred has now calmed enough to start giving him those looks of displeasure at the situation. Alfred knows he did this one purpose, and Alfred knows terrible things happened wherever he was.

Alfred just doesn't know whether those terrible things were done to Bruce or other people.

O-O-O

By the time everything winds down, it's ten at night and they're back at the mansion, Bruce absorbing the walls and halls like a fish returned to water. He prefers the city, but his home is close enough.

His room is still full of all the things he'd left there – old clothes, faded childish comic books, textbooks that still looked like they'd never been cracked open. He'd taken almost nothing with him, not being sentimental and certainly not alerting anyone to his plan.

The box was under his bed, tucked beneath a floorboard. Jack may have taken their lists with him, but Bruce had kept a few of his own things – schematics and drawings mostly, in a worn sketchbook. The box itself was from a fairground many years ago, cluttered to the brim with things they'd perceived as treasures, or memories. An oddity in their own oddities.

He stared at it longer then he'd meant to, flipping through old pages and smoothing fingers over crinkled photographs. The bookmark was still in the page he was looking for – a piece of torn journal paper to mark their greatest idea.

Bats. They still tugged at his insides, seized his head in a vice grip on the worse of days.

Gotham was a disease on the face of a crumbling world; a festering sore nobody wanted to deal with. So many people scared, and so many not.

It angered him, sparked the rare spot of emotion that tormented him. It was his city, they were his people. The League – or at least Ra's – had entrusted him with a goal.

Cleanse it, like a fire.

Jack had an idea, a terrible, terrible idea that was so strangely wrong that it might have been a right.

Bats. Always the bats.

Bruce considered the images before him, the costume and everything else they had needed.

Fear burned brighter then anything else, so what better to use then his own demons to show Gotham who was truly in charge?

O-O-O

Jack had not been living in their apartment, but that didn't mean Bruce still hadn't been paying rent. When they had been young adults, he'd set it up to pay automatically for the next several decades, he'd even bought the complex when the ownership had changed and the city had threatened to tear it down.

It was their hideaway, their council chambers where they debated matters of war. They'd spent days there by themselves, almost never speaking but understanding all the same. It was still mostly unfurnished, one sink still full of cracked ceramic and broken glass from their fights, the TV still hobbling by on some unpacked cardboard boxes of what may have been books. In their palace, the kings had little time for such things, instead leaving them for nonexistent servants.

Jack himself was splayed across the living room carpet, eyes fixated firmly on several newspapers before him. Newspapers were everywhere, in fact; over the couches and stacked in corners, tucked in cupboards and oddly enough, in chest of drawers that had indented to be placed in the bedroom, but never made it past the hallway.

And he had brought cake and brewed coffee, having timed the traffic perfectly, so Bruce's mug was still steaming on a slider before him.

"You know, I've always hated muggers." He purred, black hair in his eyes. Bruce's stomach flipped rather oddly, having set his gaze upon Jack for the first time in years. He hadn't changed too much, still rather slender, with finer muscle tone from running and a handsome face. He'd forgone a shirt, probably on purpose, showing off an array of scars and pale skin and he still looked more like a boy then a man, still had that wicked grin upon his face, dark green eyes strangely dead looking.

It was almost surreal, after so long.

"I mean, how many times did we almost get mugged?" The Other held up the paper he'd been reading, displaying a picture and article about a man that had gotten off on a technicality. "If I had a dollar for every time some punk pulled a Swiss blade on me and demanded my wallet, I'd be as rich as you."

Bruce smirked in return. "You couldn't be as rich as me."

"Well… I'd come close."

"Maybe."

They smiled for a moment, and then dropped the act, both going almost completely blank. If a stranger had walked in, they'd have had shivers going down their spines from the unnerving stillness that took them both.

And in that time, more open then most people could be in a lifetime, they said everything that couldn't be spoken aloud. The loneliness and the sadness, the pain and hurt. The cracks that had appeared over both of their control, the fissures that had splintered off from the wound where the Other had been torn.

I missed you. They never said it, but they knew all the same.

And a moment later, it was over. The masks weren't completely in place, but they were close enough. Enough to make them look human again.

"Where does that mugger live?" Bruce dropped himself onto the floor, pawing through the papers and tracing the circled articles.

And Jack just grinned back, teeth bared like an animal.